


so i could find my way

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beaches, Birthday, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Gen, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Post-Canon, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28957476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: The world moves slowly. Almost too slowly for Dean’s liking, but he’ll take it, compared to the breakneck pace they’ve been going for the past decade.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 159





	so i could find my way

The world moves slowly. Almost too slowly for Dean’s liking, but he’ll take it, compared to the breakneck pace they’ve been going for the past decade.

Most mornings, he wakes to something warm and solid pressed up against his back, or draped over him, or just sitting there, close enough to touch. The sheets are always comfortable, the mattress soft and pliant, and Dean will roll over and fall into the embrace he’s been chasing for years, if not the last decade. And he’ll doze off, lips slack mid-kiss, and forget the world for another hour or two.

But today feels different. For one, Dean wakes with the sun in his face and the salt breeze wafting through the window. On the porch, a windchime tinkles, and the waves begin to crash on the shore not too far off. Blinking, he lies there for a few minutes, watching the clouds float past and listening to the sounds of nature. That familiar warmth is gone, but not too far away. He wouldn't leave, not after this.

Sometimes, Dean feels like an old man. His knees ache, his back has spasms, and there’s a knot of flesh near his spine that still hasn’t fully healed, but is starting to mend, after months of effort. This morning, his chest aches, but not from an arrhythmia—from joy. The first day of the rest of their lives—or vacation, really—and he gets to spend it here, in complete silence and absolute peace.

Save for the sudden clatter in the kitchen. His signal to get up, then—or, someone has decided to break in and steal their cutlery. On stiff legs, Dean crawls out of bed and grabs his robe from the nightstand. Cool air meets his skin as he shrugs it on, so different to the recycled air of the Bunker and the multitude of musty smells from every motel room across the country, different yet somehow the same. He leaves the sheets rumbled on the bed and grabs his cane from the hope chest, wandering aimlessly in the direction of the kitchen. He stops first by the bathroom, then peeks through the gap in Sam’s bedroom door. Still asleep—which leaves only one culprit.

Dean finds him in the kitchen, with the windows open and blue sky at his back, and flour all over his face and the front of his apron, and the floor. Castiel glares at him, powder in his hair and on the tip of his nose. Angry as he is, he’s still adorable, and Dean can’t resist the urge to kiss him, solely because he can. “Morning,” he says, to Castiel’s grumble. “Drop something?”

“I haven’t had my second cup of coffee,” Castiel complains and kneels down, where a bowl half-full of flour and a spatula wait. Most of it, he can salvage and dump—the rest, Dean will have to mop up later. “My hands aren’t what they used to be.”

“Preachin’ to the choir,” Dean says. He pulls out a chair from the four-seater table in the corner, wincing as he sits. As much as he might want to, he still can’t stoop down as well as he did a year ago, but hopefully Castiel understands.

After a few minutes, Castiel finishes scooping flour off the floor and tosses the mess into the trash can. He picks up the half-empty bag of flour and measures everything again, setting the bowl next to a carton of eggs, a bottle of cocoa powder and other assortments that make up—“You’re baking a cake?”

Castiel nods through a yawn. “It’s your birthday,” he says, and— _oh, right_. “I figured you’d sleep in.”

“Still a light sleeper.” Dean yawns right with him. “You remembered my birthday?”

“I remember all days,” Castiel says. Dean knows he doesn’t, not anymore. Last week, he forgot three times what they were having for dinner, and spaced out for so long one evening in the library that he barely remembered anything he read. Memory and age get to the best of them. He’ll get used to it. If not, there’s always pills. “I remember the day I raised you, and the exact minute we first kissed. I remember the first time you undid my tie—”

“Okay, okay.” Dean waves him off with a blush. Too early to revisit _that_ memory. “So you’re an elephant.”

A small smile flutters across Castiel’s lips. “Not as much as I used to be.” He pulls another bowl from the cupboards and sets it atop the stove, sifting out enough out flour and sugar, and a generous helping of cocoa. “I’ve started keeping a journal. Or, several, really. I’m afraid someday, I’ll forget the history of the angels, and I’d like to keep a record of it. Among other events.”

Humming, Dean leans back, purely content to watch. After Castiel mixes everything together, he grabs the vegetable oil and a bottle of buttermilk from the fridge, shaking the latter until it loosens. “We’re all gonna forget shit someday,” Dean mentions. Castiel falters, but nods. “Hell, half the time I forget if I’ve taken my meds.”

“I bought you a pill container,” Castiel huffs.

“And I’m using it,” Dean shoots back. Only if he remembers to refill it in the first place. “Point is, that’s one of the perks of being human. We get old and forget things. Like, one time I stayed in this motel that I swore I’d never seen before, but Sam said we’ve booked it three times.”

“I’d blame that on your lifestyle,” Castiel says, measuring out the buttermilk and oil. He cracks two eggs into the bowl, then grabs the hand mixer and plugs it in. “A string of one nondescript motel after another, it’s no surprise that you might stay in the same one more than once and not remember it.”

Whatever Dean wanted to reply, Castiel cuts him off by turning the mixer on high, beating the ingredients for a good few minutes. Part of Dean wonders if it’s intentional, just to shut him up, or if he’s venting his frustrations at eight in the morning via technology. Back home, they have a stand mixer with all of the attachments; here, all the owner has is a thirty-year-old appliance that sounds like a dentist’s drill when it starts up. Dean shudders involuntarily at the memory.

Two minutes later, Castiel stops and taps the beaters on the side of the bowl. It smells like chocolate, and Dean can’t wait until it’s finished. “It’s exhausting,” he says. He grabs the vanilla as an afterthought and measures out a few teaspoons, mixing it in with a spoon. “I wake up, and parts of me ache that I didn't think could. My legs don’t want to stop moving, and my head hurts if I look at the sky too long, and my hair is going gray.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Dean says, smirking.

Castiel rolls his eyes. He scoops out a portion of the batter and walks over to Dean, offering him the spoon. “I need to add water before I bake it.”

“Didn’t think you’d go so hardcore into this baking thing,” Dean says as he takes the offered spoon. It tastes good—needs some salt, though, and more cocoa powder. “You take criticism?”

“It’s not that bad,” Castiel says, nearly a whine. “This is my second attempt. The first, I mixed up the amounts and added more sugar than flour.”

Dean pats his elbow in condolence. “Just needs some salt. You gonna make the frosting from scratch, or—”

Castiel pulls out a jar of Betty Crocker frosting. Not homemade, but probably the next best thing. “I was planning to use anything I had left over, but I’m—”

“Caffeine-deprived,” Dean chuckles. Standing, he pulls Castiel into an embrace, nuzzling his neck. He smells like sea salt, from their swim before they dawdled off to bed. He apparently never showered—and probably got sand in the sheets, as well. For the day, Dean will blame it on the road and the two-day drive. Tomorrow, he’ll goad Castiel into stripping the bed, knowing full and well he’s at fault too. “Yeah, me too. C’mon, I’ll show you how, and we can eat from the can.”

-+-

The world moves slowly. A luxury that he never thought he’d have.

The cake bakes in the oven, Dean cooks breakfast with the remaining eggs, and Sam wakes, attracted by the smell of ham. In silence, the three of them eat, fending off the seagull that’s apparently decided he’s their plus one, despite the screen keeping him out. The house, supposedly, has survived multiple hurricanes without a scratch, all thanks to the concrete-clad stilts and storm shutters facing the ocean. In a way, it’s beautiful—in another, Dean fears that he’ll wake up in bed with the ruins of the house collapsed around him.

The oven dings, and Castiel temporally abandons his plate of eggs and hash browns to pull the cake pans out with obnoxiously floral mittens. Dean’s mouth waters at the smell, but manages to restrain himself. The last time he tried to taste something before it was ready, Castiel smacked his hand with a wooden spoon. “Give it an hour,” Castiel says, setting the trays on top of the stove. “Sam, did you bring it?”

Bring it? Bring what?

“Oh, yeah, give me a sec.” And Sam leaves the table, practically sprinting across the house.

Dean watches him leave, then turns back to Castiel, a brow raised. “Am I about to get pranked?”

“I think you’ll like it,” Castiel says. Removing a mitten, he strokes through Dean’s hair, letting his hand linger atop his nape. Dean shivers and leans into him, nosing into the flour dusting Castiel’s apron. Just because he can—because Castiel loves him too, and won’t ever stop. “It was expensive, but you’re worth the price.”

“Cas,” Dean whines. Castiel pinches the back of his neck, and Dean laughs, sending up a puff of flour. “You don’t have to—”

“I don’t,” Castiel says, “but I wanted to. We did, since Sam came up with the idea.”

“And it’s a good idea,” Sam announces. Pushing their empty plates aside, Sam sets a box down in front of him, haphazardly wrapped in aluminum-silver paper. “I had to watch three videos to learn how to wrap that.”

“Never have figured that out,” Dean says and clears his throat. Anything to keep from crying, and he hasn’t even opened it yet.

Probably too delicately, Dean tears open the wrapping and sets it aside, revealing a plain cardboard box, stamped with too many barcodes and a sticker from a few months ago when Castiel ordered an ergonomic pillow. Whatever inside is definitely smaller than said pillow, considering it rolls around when Dean shakes it from side to side. Castiel brings over a knife, and Dean cuts through the cheap packing tape to reveal—

A digital camera.

Not even a cheap one, but the kind that probably has a warranty and costs the same as a down payment on a car. Inside are several different lenses and memory cards, as well as a backpack and a variety of chargers and cords. Everything he would need if he ever planned on becoming a professional. It’s probably the most expensive gift anyone has ever given him, and the most thoughtful.

“I was thinking of getting something older,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But getting film developed is expensive.”

“We went to Best Buy,” Castiel adds, too chipper about it. “The saleswoman was very informative and kept trying to push us for the more expensive model.”

“More?” Dean balks, looking between them. What could be more expensive than a Sony?

“Didn’t think you needed a tripod,” Sam laughs. Red heats his cheeks; his eyes are wet, probably worse than Dean’s. “You like it?”

What a question, does he like it. Dean wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his robe while Castiel massages his nape, fingers pressing into his collar. Holding it in his lap, he looks down at the lens, the entire device blurry. “I love it,” he says, choked. “Don’t know how I’m gonna top it.”

Sam laughs and drags Dean into a sideways hug, and Dean doesn’t cringe when he sniffles into his ear. “Happy birthday, man.”

“Thanks,” Dean croaks. Castiel hugs him after, sneaking in a kiss to his temple. Months ago, he didn't think he’d make it here, let alone out of a hospital bed. Now, he has a camera and a new lease on life, with his family at his side. What more could he ask for?

_Cake_ , he remembers. But the cake can wait, at least for another hour. He has an instruction booklet to skim.

-+-

The world moves slowly. Even slower at night, with the abysmal sky painted black, dying the ocean the same shade of dark.

A few feet from a pile of burning driftwood, Dean sprawls out in the sand and stares up at the stars. Something cheesy plays on the portable radio Sam brought with them, and the waves die to a gentle lap, no longer guided by the wind. Sam does the responsible thing and sits in a plastic chair, and Castiel wanders the surf, picking up shells to skip back into the water.

It’s… boring, actually. But not in the way that he expects, when he has to stake out a barn or someone’s house, or when Sam drops a book in front of him and tells him to start reading. In fact, he enjoys it, just lying there with nothing to do except listen to the fire crackle and the gulls settle down for the night.

Inside, half a chocolate cake sits on the counter for tomorrow, and their leftover Italian waits in the fridge for whenever they stumble back into the kitchen. Pleasantly full, Dean closes his eyes and exists, awash with salt air and the emotion that’s never quite died down in his chest. Forty-two years—how did he ever make it here? How did he survive this long without losing a limb or some other body part? Granted, his kidney is currently decomposing in a pit of medical waste, but he can live with just the one, so long as he doesn't drink himself sick or stay on painkillers for longer than he needs.

Somehow, he’s alive. Sam doesn’t have to grow old alone, Castiel came back to him with one string attached, and all is right.

Idly, Dean holds his camera above his head, thumbing through the photos he took today, the ones he genuinely liked blurry, but others incredibly clear, particularly the ones he wasn't even focusing on. All in all, about fifty in total, but the numbers don't add up. He flips backwards a ways, passing the first initial photo he took and stumbling onto others, none that he recalls ever seeing. Most are pictures of him from behind in the Bunker, while others are of him sleeping, completely unkempt and drool sticking to his chin—

And more. Older ones, digital scans of the photographs he keeps in his nightstand, somehow loaded onto the SD card. Someone spent their time orchestrating this, and it wasn’t Sam. Smart as he may be and as far as Dean knows, Sam doesn’t know where he keeps all of his pictures, and the only person who does—

Is standing on the shore.

Castiel took the time and effort of scanning everything, just so whenever Dean wanted to remember, he could pull out his camera and look. Maybe he could transfer them to his phone, or have them printed. The possibilities are endless.

Castiel casts a look over his shoulder, right at Dean—and Dean nods, turning back to the screen. He has more memories to make, and more time to spend with those he loves—and he can’t wait.

-+-

The world moves slowly, filled with love.

Dean wanders into bed sometime before midnight, the smell of smoke in his hair and sand between his toes, no matter how many times he washes them clean. Castiel takes his time undressing in front of the dresser, pulling off his button down and setting it atop the hope chest at the foot of the bed. His shorts follow; he keeps his boxer-briefs on, mostly because apparently, he doesn’t like sleeping naked, or so he says.

The mattress dips as he crawls over to meet Dean, throwing an arm around his waist. Sighing, Dean grips his hand, and Castiel kisses just beneath his ear. “Saw your little addition,” he says, listening to Castiel hum. “How’d you do that?”

“I spent a few hours at the library,” Castiel mumbles. “I had someone walk me through the process. We’ve been working on this gift for the better part of a month.”

“I bet.” Looking back, Dean meets him for a lopsided kiss. Not the greatest, but definitely better than nothing. “Doesn’t explain all the ones you took of me while I was knocked out.”

Breathy, Castiel chuckles. “You’re remarkable when you sleep,” he says, nuzzling Dean’s hairline. “I’ve never seen you more relaxed than when you let your guard down. You twitch when you sleep.”

Dean hides his face in the bed linens. “Never really could sit still,” he mumbles, but relaxes. “Surprised I’ve never sleepwalked.”

“You have, once,” Castiel says, which—Dean doesn’t remember. “A few weeks ago, you walked into the kitchen at two in the morning and asked where all the fish were. You started winding a can opener and pretended to cast a line.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Dean groans. So that wasn't a dream—he actually did do that. Thankfully, Sam wasn’t the one to witness it. “And you let me?”

Castiel pats his stomach, inches from the waistband of his briefs. “In my defense, I thought you were awake, until you started talking about moon phases. I think we had pot roast that night, and you were complaining of indigestion.”

That would explain it—but not about the sleepwalking, unless that week’s round of antibiotics had a weird side effect he didn't know about. Thankfully that pill only lasted a week. “You got any other shots I should worry about?”

A smirk curls Castiel’s lips. “Not right now,” he leers. “Maybe later, if I can convince you.”

Dean can’t help but stifle a laugh, shaking in Castiel’s arms. “Swear you’re going through puberty,” he joshes, and Castiel doesn’t disagree. “I just got the thing and you wanna taint it with your _filth_.”

“There are more uses for a camera than scenic photography,” Castiel murmurs. He peppers a string of kisses over Dean’s shoulder before settling into the sheets, his breath warm. Silence fills the empty spaces in the room, only interrupted by the waves and the occasional rustling of sheets. “I didn't think I’d ever have this.”

Exhaling, Dean squeezes his hand, once. “You and me both.”

Because months ago, Dean never thought he would walk again, never thought he’d make it out of that barn. And for weeks after, he waited and prayed for someone to fix him, to cure the infection and the chills, and the ache in his chest where his heart futilely beat on. And one day, a man walked in his door, a man wearing Castiel’s face and Castiel’s smile and tasting of Castiel’s tears, and filled the hole in Dean’s heart. He never questioned it, never asked why—just took Castiel into his arms and told him all he needed to know.

Years ago, Dean never believed in miracles, until one walked into his life, and stayed.

Dean rolls over into Castiel’s embrace, noses touching, legs twined. Around them, the world might as well not exist. Castiel palms his ribs, runs his fingers along his arm, tips his chin down for a kiss. He tastes like cherry toothpaste and the shot of whiskey they snuck as soon as Sam headed off to bed. Dean could kiss him every second for the rest of his life, and he would still want more. Castiel will never be enough, and at the same time, he’s everything Dean has ever wanted.

Dean loves him. With his heart and soul, he loves Castiel, and will never stop.

Tears in his eyes, he strokes Castiel’s cheek, his throat thick. “You’re it for me,” he says for probably the fifth time. And every time, Castiel looks away, somehow ashamed despite everything. “No, no, look at me.” Swallowing, Dean palms his cheek, feeling his jaw clench. “You’re _it_ for me, Cas. You gotta know that. You gotta believe me. For the longest time, it’s been you, and I was too chickenshit to actually do anything about it. And then you—you left, and I couldn’t stand it. I never… All the times you’ve left, or died, you never saw me after. You never saw how much it hurt, and I’m… I’m tired of it. ‘Cause I love you.” He stops to wipe his eyes. “Probably too damn much.”

“It’s enough,” Castiel assures, though his voice wavers. He lays a hand over Dean’s neck, then up, caressing his jaw, fingertips grazing his ear. “When Jack told me that I could come back, I said I wanted it on my terms. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to live out the rest of my days and return to Heaven when it was my time, and I wanted you by my side. All I’ve ever wanted is this.” He noses his way into a kiss, laden with salt on his lips. “I’m glad I didn't have to wait.”

“Yeah.” Laughing, Dean turns his face into the pillows. “Just… happy. That you’re here, that we’ve got another… what, thirty, forty years? You know when I die?”

To Dean’s shock, Castiel shakes his head. “I asked Jack to take one thing from me, and that was the memory of when you’re supposed to take your last breath. But my sincere hope is that it’ll be a long, long while from now.”

_Me too_ , Dean thinks. Drawing an arm around Castiel, he pulls him close, until he can feel Castiel’s chest against his own, hearts beating in unison. The night is quiet, but not lonely. Because Castiel is here, and Castiel is his, and that will always be enough.

“Thanks for the camera,” Dean mumbles, closing his eyes.

Castiel hums a tune, stroking through the hairs at the base of his skull. “Thank you for everything,” he says with another kiss. “Happy birthday.”

Swallowing, Dean nods, body slack in Castiel’s arms, awash in Castiel’s love. A love that Dean returns, that he’s always wanted to give, and now he can, because Castiel is here. _I love him_ , he thinks, overjoyed. _I’ll always love him_.

“Thank you,” he says, and sleeps, swept away by Castiel’s gentle touch, by the waves waiting just outside their door.

-+-

The world moves slowly. That much, Dean knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning and happy Dean's birthday day! I started working on this yesterday and finished it this morning, and now I'm emotional over the best boy ever ;A; I hope y'all enjoy! 
> 
> Title is from the Enya song, as is my brand. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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